


You've Always Counted

by Minxchester (ComeAlongPond14)



Series: the one that counts the most [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Reichenbach Falls, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:49:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeAlongPond14/pseuds/Minxchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What do you need?"</p><p>"You."</p><p>And consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Always Counted

**Author's Note:**

> A/N I'm only a minor Sherlolly shipper...season 3 made me a believer. Anyway, I was re-suffering RF, cause I'm a masochist, and their brief exchange always sticks with me. So I wrote this. Cause I secretly love parent!Lock, though I usually read it as Johnlock.
> 
> I know, I know, I'm a jerk tease....I promise, "Sparks Fly" will update ASAP. I missed posting things, and I had this and a few Doctor Who fics saved to my Google Drive, and I was like...yeah, why not. So I give you this.

Being a mortuary staff doctor in a prominent London hospital isn’t as glamorous as it sounds.

Or maybe it doesn’t sound glamorous to anyone.

But the nice thing about that is, she never expected it to be anything extraordinary. She chose it as her career because she liked being down in the labyrinth of labs and classrooms, and of course the morgue itself, in the basement of St. Bart’s. She’d loved it as a student, and she loved it as a workplace. And of course, she’d loved it when it brought that mad, eccentric, wild, ridiculous man into her life.

Sherlock Holmes was not normal, but unlike everyone else in the hospital or on the police force, Molly Hooper did not want him to be. Sometimes it made her a bit sad that he would never see things that other people saw--he’d certainly never see the point of a romantic relationship, for example, even with someone who more or less understood him, as she did--but in the end, it was worth it. Watching him work, helping him as best she could, listening to his muttered rants and exhilarated exclamations when he found the answer he’d been hunting for.

He had changed, when Dr. John Watson came into his life. Molly was stunned to see him become almost....human....as the good doctor nudged and guided him through the social dynamics that meant nothing to him, keeping him as in line as was possible with Sherlock. She watched him soften, his work becoming a little more about the people and not just the solutions. He was not outright a changed man; she suspected he would never forgive John if he woke up one day legitimately caring about people. But he seemed, somehow, to see just a little more.

And then there was Jim Moriarty, ripping through their world like a natural disaster, tearing into Sherlock with venom tainted claws and attacking until he pulled the man apart. It sickened her, how responsible she felt, having let him right into her life, even though she knew it wasn’t her fault--Jim had used her, but he would have had no trouble finding another way in. She was just the pawn he happened to choose. Perhaps it was better that it was her. At least this way, she had personal control over coping with the pain. She didn’t have to witness someone else fall to pieces.

The night that Sherlock changed the game, made one last great, self-sacrificing effort to beat Moriarty and still save everyone, was burned into her memory for a dozen different reasons. She remembered the tension in the air, the fear that hung over London as they waited for the truth, to know what was real and what was fiction: was Sherlock the cunning, socially awkward genius he’d appeared to be? Or a fraud, spinning out a web of clever lies in order to make himself a hero?

She had never doubted the answer to that.

She remembered the moment he’d spoken out of the darkness, making her jump as she’d headed out of the lab, done for the night and assuming there was nothing left to attend to. His low, beautiful voice, rich and thick with suppressed sorrow as he spoke to her, resuming a previous conversation as though it had never been cut off.

“You’re wrong, you know. You do count. You’ve always counted, and I’ve always trusted you.” His gaze cut to her, as piercing and penetrating as ever, but suddenly so very vulnerable and desperate. “But you were right. I’m not okay.”

She had asked him what he needed, disregarded his halting questioning of whether she would still want to help him if he weren’t what she thought he was--he had to know that she dismissed Moriarty’s lies, she would not be fooled again--and finally he’d answered, standing so close, looming over her, his eyes boring into hers with a need that sent warmth rippling through her. “You.”

She had helped him, made the arrangements and set in motion the steps that would hide him away, erase him until it was safe again, until John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were safe again.

“And you,” Sherlock had said, eyes fixed intently on Molly’s face as she’d returned to his side, smiling sleepily to confirm her success. He’d raised one hand, almost hesitantly, and to her shock he’d cupped her chin gently, his fingers smooth and cool and relaxing. “It will keep you safe as well.”

Molly gave a soft, breathless laugh, sadness blooming in her heart as she wished she could tell him what she was feeling, tell him how silly it was to include her on the list of those he had to protect. “No one thinks I matter. Not in something this important, anyway. I’m safe enough.”

Sherlock stood, his hand not leaving her jaw, gazing down at her with a mixture of reprimand and...pleading?...in his glasz eyes. “What doesn’t matter is whether or not others recognize your worth. So long as you know how important...how crucial you are...that matters.” He smiled faintly. “That counts.”

Molly licked her lips unconsciously, started when she saw his eyes track the movement. “Everything is ready, Sherlock.”

His gaze cut to the clock on the wall, noting the amount of time he had until he had to go. Molly followed his glance.

“Not long now,” she whispered, half questioning.

His eyes settled back on her face, and the air froze in her lungs. “Long enough,” he replied.

In that moment, she would have said that nothing could surprise her, and perhaps it didn’t, really, but she still gasped softly when his lips closed over hers, the kiss so gentle and searching that it made her almost want to cry. Pressing back into him, she deepened the kiss, and he responded, hands sliding from her face and shoulder to her waist, holding her tightly, his lips parting as he began exploring, tasting her. She opened to him, let him take what he needed as his own pace. She wasn’t sure what this was, but she knew that he needed it right now, and somehow, oddly, so did she.

They moved slowly, gracefully, like long-time lovers with all the time in the world. Like it was not the first time they’d kissed, touched, even looked at each other with mutual desire, and certainly like there was no countdown hovering over Sherlock, a clock ticking down to a terrible deadline. He discarded his scarf and heavy coat over a lab bench, and without conscious thought Molly sank down to sit on top of it, letting the thick fabric cushion the hard bench surface.

Sherlock murmured inarticulate approval, continuing to kiss her lips and cheeks and jaw as he gently nudged her sweater off, tossing it over his shoulder to land on the countertop, making her giggle. Those long pale fingers dexterously worked down the buttons of her blouse, and Molly gasped and seized his wrists, stilling his hands as she gazed into his eyes.

“Sherlock...are you....I mean, are you sure?”

He looked so haunted, so needy, she hated even asking, but she couldn’t bear it if he walked away from her for the last time full of regrets.

He leaned down and kissed her again, sweetly, his answer ghosting over her mouth. “Molly Hooper, I have rarely been so sure of anything. Please, let me.”

She stopped protesting, letting her fingers curl into his hair--that beautiful hair!--as he finished his task, letting the cheap floral-patterned cotton slide open, baring her. He didn’t slow down, his eyes running over her skin worshipfully. Molly’s breath caught at the intensity of his desire, and his gaze cut to hers with an almost-smile. “You are...radiant, Molly. Simply radiant.”

She blushed and smiled, then gasped again with happiness as he straightened, unbuttoning his jacket and slinging it over the top of the counter with the rest. She reached up, quickly working through the pearl-white buttons of that damnably sexy purple shirt, tugging him lower simply so she could drag it over his shoulders, giggling more as he dropped, then sat up again swiftly to discard the shirt.

Hands roamed freely now, exploring warm skin and finding the sensitive spots that made each other shiver, grinning into kisses and murmuring words of praise as he managed to do away with her sturdy work trousers, and the shockingly scandalous pants she wore beneath, and Molly moaned brokenly as he finally reached her, his fingers moving over her with such intimate assurance and confidence, it was though he’d been made to touch her this way.

It was a lover’s night, slow and sweet and tender, with soft laughter and gentle kisses and careful touches, rising to the peak and then letting their bodies cool down, only to ignite the flame again, until at last he whispered hoarsely that he needed her now, said those magical words again, and Molly nodded and kissed him hungrily as he stroked his hands over her body, thrusting into her until they reached a climax that was both needy and so utterly soothing.

Afterwards they dressed, the room still dim lit and still, but beginning to brighten with dawn through the high windows. Molly stood uncertainly by his coat, watching him button his shirt and jacket smartly, before he turned toward her. The smile on his face was so reassuring.

Stepping forward, he cupped her cheek and kissed her once, twice more, so simple. Pulling away, he drew on his coat, then wrapped his scarf around his neck, concealing the few places where Molly had unintentionally left a mark. Slipping his phone into his pocket, he exhaled slowly. “And now, I go to battle."

Molly smiled sadly, reaching up to straighten his scarf needlessly, just wanting to touch him one more time. “It will win you the war, though, right?”

A sad chuckle, a nod, and then he straightened his shoulders, adopting the cool, detached expression that she knew so well. Here he was, Sherlock Holmes, the untouchable. Stepping back, she watched him go to the door. Hand on the knob, he looked back at her once.

“Take care of yourself, Molly--don’t do anything reckless. I need you waiting her when I...return. Alright?” At her faithful nod, he let out a relieved breath. “And the others. I’ll need you to watch out for them. For my sake.”

“Go, Sherlock,” Molly whispered, knowing she’d break and beg him not to if he stayed any longer.

And then he was gone.

It would be another hour or so before she was called to where he’d be, the paramedics rushing in with the stretcher bearing his long frame, his pale skin and contrasting dark clothing stained scarlet, his eyes wide and staring as she waited for his miracle.

***

One week after attending a funeral with an empty coffin, Molly received a box which contained all of Sherlock’s personal medical parafilia, some of which she realized with a snort actually belonged to Bart’s--cheeky bugger. She knew John must have sent it, must have chosen her as the only person he could trust to deal with this for him. She did. Sealing the box and writing her own name on it, she placed it in employee storage. The man would want his things back when he came home.

One month after burying no one, Molly ran into John, sitting in the hospital cafeteria and browsing ads for flats to rent. Sitting next to him silently, she murmured, “Can’t you stay there?”

His jaw set. “Of course. But I won’t. I can’t.”

She touched his shoulder, but there was nothing to say. She walked away.

Two months after faking the paperwork for a body that was never there, Molly found herself kept home, unable to go to work because of nausea that kept her trapped in her little bedroom, going from the bed to the toilet, trying to think what could have gotten her sick.

Within a few days, when the bouts of dizzying nausea and the drowsiness and the aching tenderness all over had begun to scare her, she finally caved and bought the little pharmacy box, with two test sticks for better results.

One day passed, and the plastic stick lying on the counter bearing two pink stripes was studiously ignored. Another week of barely tolerable symptoms, a second positive test, and Molly groaned and went upstairs in St. Bart’s to get a formal answer.

Well, then. _You can protest all you want, Molly Hooper, but tough luck; you are pregnant_. And no one--not even his best friend--can know that it’s his.

***

It didn’t turn out to be that difficult. No one cared that she was single, that the father was a mystery; her colleagues at the hospital were so pleased for her, throwing her a baby shower in the nurse’s station. Four months without Sherlock, and Molly shyly accepted the warm attention that his unborn child was bringing to her. She had a visit from Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, both of whom were thrilled for her--Sally even stepped in to shake her hand and say an awkward congratulations. Best of all, at least to Molly, John sent her a letter, a small note tucked in a plain envelope with no return address:

Molly,

Mrs. Hudson told me the news.

So happy for you, especially if you’re happy about it.

Hope all the best for you and the little one.

JHW

She kept that letter on her bedside table, wishing to God she could at least tell him whose child it was, even if she could not yet tell him the truth about Sherlock’s fall. No one could know either secret. Not even Sherlock would know, though that was hardly by choice. Molly sighed and sank into her bed, cupping her barely-rounded belly and longing.

***

The leaves changed and the air went from brisk to outright cold for the third autumn since Sherlock had gone. Molly stood at her kitchen window, gazing out at the bustling street and sipping her morning tea as she contemplated her life as it was.

There was a clatter of a spoon thunking on the high chair, and Molly tsked affectionately as she turned to rescue the silverware in question from the destructive eating habits of her two year old. “For goodness sake, Charlotte, you’re as much of a hellion at 2 years as your father is at more than 30. Am I going to turn grey prematurely?”

The little girl merely beamed up at her with wide, glassy grey eyes, so like her father’s. Molly stroked a hand through the soft curls, not quite as dark as his, but certainly closer to it than Molly’s own mousy brown locks. Kissing the cherubic cheek, she put her back in her chair and handed her the sippy cup of milk. “Trouble maker,” she said lovingly.

There was a soft rap at the door, and Molly sighed. It was her first day off in weeks, and she was thrilled to have Charlotte for the whole day. She didn’t want to deal with people.

Tying her robe securely, she unbolted the door and opened it, letting the watery fall sunlight stream in. As her eyes adjusted, she bit back a yelp.

Sherlock ducked his head apologetically, stepping back as though to not scare her more. “Molly, I’m sorry. I...I’m back.”

Catching her breath, Molly smiled breathlessly, stepping forward to throw her arms around him without hesitation. “So I see,” she whispered into his scarf--still wearing that bloody scarf--and inhaling deeply, absorbing his familiar scent.

Sherlock’s arms tightened around her, and she heard him murmuring softly into her hair, mindless, affectionate nothings. When he drew back at last, his gaze searched her face hungrily. “May I come in?”

Molly caught her breath. Moment of truth. Stepping back inside, she let him in and closed the door, leaning against it and waiting.

Sherlock moved forward into the kitchen, and from her position, Molly watched him freeze, his shoulders stiffening. Another clatter as Charlotte dropped her cup on the high chair table, likely delighted by the sight of a new face. She gave a sweet gurgle of pleasure, and Molly could just imagine her throwing her hands up, wanting a pick-up.

Sherlock spun around, staring at Molly. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask, just waited.

She slowly exhaled. “Mine, yes, not nannying or sitting.”

His gaze ran over the child again. “She’s...two years. Two years old?”

Molly licked her lips. “Yes.”

He turned to stare at her once more. “Molly, is she--”

“Yes.”

She’d never seen anyone smile so quickly.


End file.
